Poem

Nag's Head

The thing about this street is that it smells of sick.
The pigeons and starlings peck and push at the nightly gifts of rice
And I try so hard not to notice.

The shop round the corner sells drinks to the men
Who shout and rail by the busstop. Sometimes they say things
'Nice legs
nice tits
short dress'
No point in minding.
I try not to notice.
Ihe shop sells them spirits in fuzzy foam cups.
I don't mind...no I don't, but they wee in my porch.

My porch...

Yesterday morning, leaving for work, the front door would not open. A girl in a sleeping bag, marshmallow pink
Blocking my way.
I was late,
I was trapped,
I pushed the door gently.

Again and again,
nudging and insisting she wake.
She did not.

Frantic now that I would be late,
I whacked the door at her
harder and harder
so that her soft sleepy skin must have bruised.
What could I do?
She moved, the door opened, I stepped over her bed
All the time I just tried not to notice.

I try not to notice the sirens each night,
the bad karaoke next door...
I close all the windows and shut out the light
I live in a street of ignore.

Sarah Heenan
London, England

A casual poet and sketch performer who writes treasure hunts and plans fun for a living. Grew up in Wales and Bristol and now lives in North London

Back to poetry map | Back to poems index